RIP NiT.

I’d be greatly remiss if I didn’t give a tip of the hat to Nashville is Talking, which put up its last post yesterday.  This is also a response to Betsy Phillips’s interview of Brittney Gilbert, the last line of which reads:

I wonder if the Tennessee bloggers will miss NiT.

Pretty sure the answer is yes for most of us.  The thing is, though—I already missed NiT.  I admit I stopped reading it not long after everything took such a turn for the absurd and Brittney left.  I ended up happy for her, incidentally, as her career has absolutely taken wings, and she seems blissfully at home in San Francisco.

I think the majority of you would not be reading this if it weren’t for Brittney and NiT.  It’s actually a heart thing for me, sitting here in the same office where I started writing this thing three years ago, writing about the platform that gave me a readership.  I didn’t know what to do with a blog, you know?  I knew my job (the one I’ve gone back to for the time being) had dead time, and I knew there were things I wanted to write about.  I had friends whose blogs inspired me (Emily, pretty please start writing again, k?), and I knew I could do something similar.

I was never, have never been, and will never be a controversial writer.  I won’t get into politics, I don’t generally do religion unless it’s a (hopefully) gentle expression of my personal faith, and I’m not especially humorous.  But, when Brittney would take something I’d written and post it on NiT, it was a validation I’d never had, really, and one I couldn’t have gotten in any other way.  Sharing my writing was a HUGE step, and I’m still struggling with how much self-censoring I do and how much more I could be sharing.  When something I wrote—even if it was a snarky commentary on Starbucks customers or something just as frivolous—became a small thread in the community’s conversation that day, well, it made my day.

I know that my blog was never one of the heavy-hitters, and I didn’t (and still don’t) want it to be.  It was so vital, though, that the ones who were heavy hitters had such a unique forum.  There were some pretty big jerks, I recall, and honestly, I won’t read their blogs to this day.  But, also to this day, I’m able to subscribe to blogs expressing polar-opposite views of my own and at least take away food for thought because I once got to “know” the writer through the conversation on NiT.  It’s also been my privilege to attend meetups where I could witness the rapport among those all over the ideological spectrum.

That’s the thing—I was a small part of it, but I still got to be a part of something that, as an introverted writer wannabe, I could never have gotten up the courage to join myself.  It was just so organic—I wrote, and that’s all I had to do.  I could comment if I wanted, or I could just enjoy the day’s exchanges, all brought together by Brittney’s keen eye for the relevant and interesting.

I really just got in on the tail end of it all.  I started this blog in February, and by June, NiT had crashed and burned. 

I admire Christian Grantham a lot, and it’s been a pleasure to make his acquaintance via Twitter.  He, too, did some great things with Nashville is Talking when he took the helm.  He obviously loves Nashville and cares about the community.

I’m just nostalgic is all.  That site in its heyday did a lot for me as a blogger and a new Nashvillian, and I think I always hoped it would somehow return to that, if in a new form.  Insert cliche about change and progress here, I guess.  I’m just thankful I got to experience it and get my blogging start there.

Question from Anonymous: “I hate when people ask me what I’m writing. Especially when I try to be vague and they ask me to tell them ‘all about it!’ I never want to; if I did, then what’s the point in writing it? Anyway, is there a question you really dislike being asked?”

I totally get this; I guess it’s only natural that someone you know personally would look at something you’ve written and be concerned if they felt something was under the surface.  I can appreciate that, and it has happened to me as well.  I think it’s one reason my mom doesn’t read my blog anymore and my dad never started reading it—it’s personal on a completely different level than I am with them, and I think it just feels weird.

I’m fairly open and navel-gazy, but like you, with some stuff, I stay intentionally vague.  I consider my blog a different realm, and thus I’m taken aback on the occasion that someone wants to pursue it into “real life” interactions.  Many of my friends are bloggers, too, so they understand.  Others, whether it’s concern or nosiness, feel the need for more information, and I don’t always know how to react to that.  It’s not bad (always), I just feel exposed, which doesn’t seem exactly the right reaction, considering I put it on the internet to begin with.

As for whether there are questions I don’t like to answer, I have to say yes.  It will always depend upon who’s asking, and why.  If we’re close and I’d like to continue to be so, I like to think you’d continue to want to know me and know more about me, which would naturally mean you would ask me questions.  It’s not pleasant to always have to be the one asking and wondering if the other person cares about how you would answer the same questions.  Thankfully, I have caring relationships where that’s usually not a problem.

I also have a question phobia, one which is not unrelated to my touch issues.  I grew up religious and in a small town in the south, a preacher’s kid; I went to a private religious school for college and then taught at one for my first real job.  These are all settings that breed gossip and scrutiny, and I knew that just because of who I was, I was fair game in a lot of people’s eyes to have to answer for a lot of things that, truthfully, I might or might not owe an explanation for.

Also being a kid with a sensitive conscience, I grew up thinking I did have to answer to everyone.  This got blown out of proportion (and then turned on its head) when I worked for the college right out of grad school.  I answered to everyone, all the time, and none of my answers were ever good enough.  So, I kind of turned it the other way.  I’ve struggled since then with not wanting to answer anything about myself, including just basic questions like “are you seeing anyone?” (its own can of worms, obviously, for most single people) or “what do you do?” (seeing as how it’s something different from year to year, and that’s stressful).

I struggle with the thought that people are asking these questions in order to judge me, or that their questions are actually thinly-veiled accusations.  This, of course, is not usually going to be the case, and it’s paranoid and narcissistic; still, it’s a hard feeling to fight.

Probably an unnecessarily-long answer to the question, but there it is.  All of the above notwithstanding, I assume nothing but the best about anything you would want to ask me on formspring, and I hope you will continue to, as it’s waking me out of my blogcoma. 

Note:  I leave questions with shorter answers on the formspring page, but ones with treatises such as the above get their own blog posts.  Thanks again!

Question from Anonymous: “So do you think sometimes if you can’t see your foot and you don’t move it for a while, that maybe it’s not really there anymore?”

This, possibly, is the best first question I could have gotten in my little formspring experiment.  So, thanks, Anonymous!

As for my answer, hmmm.  Don’t get me wrong; I think along these lines all the time.  But, just as with the proverbial Pope in the woods, this kind of thing gets a little too epistemological for my scope of knowledge.

[I just typed out a long description of this weird alternate-reality view of the world I've always had, but then it seemed completely irrelevant.  So, I'll just say:]

Your foot is what you make of it, sir or madam.  It may or may not disappear in such an instance as you describe, but if it’s there when you snap out of your philosophical haze and decide to step off the couch and go make a sandwich, be thankful.

***

Okay, this is fun, and I already have more to answer.  Thanks for humoring me, and visit my formspring page to ask something that will surely be met with enlightenment the likes of which you’ve rarely encountered.

Ask me something.

I set up a formspring so you can ask me questions.  You can click here or you can look to your right and click there.  I’ve been blog-stymied lately, and I could use some reader wake-up calls.  You can ask anonymously, or you can give your information.  If you’re mean or dirty, I will ignore you.

Ask away!

Sometimes I learn things at church.

Other times, I just get reinforced on what I already know.  Which is its own form of learning.

“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?

~Matthew 6:25-27

I…worry a lot.  Like, a LOT.  Sometimes more than others.  I do well for a while, then life changes in one way or another, and with change brings this slew of things I have to THINK about—to think to death, actually.  For instance, I’ve spent well over two months in a controlled state of near-panic that has at times paralyzed me.  All, basically, because I don’t know how a certain situation is going to turn out.  (Actually, more than one situation, but one is more significant.)

That’s silly.  I was glad this was discussed this morning, both in worship and in Bible study.  I needed to hear it.

And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ [...] But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.

~Matthew 6:28-31, 33

Of course, knowing I shouldn’t worry and not worrying are two different things.  The things I worry about are important to me.  Obviously.  The things I worry about are things that could change my life for the better or the worse.  And, sometimes, in the middle of it all, I don’t feel like I’m getting what I need.  I have these freakouts where I’m not sure I can go on under the circumstances.  But, I go on.

Some things—most things, actually—are just bigger than me.  Some things, I’m just a part of.  I don’t even really want to be in charge.  I’m a big believer in free will and individual responsibility—these things just bring with them a lot of capacity for things to go wrong.  And I…well, I tend to dwell on what could go horribly, horribly wrong.  I also, weirdly, tend to dwell so much on what could go wonderfully right, that when I don’t immediately get that, it automatically converts itself to said belief that things are going horribly wrong.

As we all know, it’s usually in the middle.  And Holly should be patient.  And Holly’s gonna try.  Thing is, it’s out of my hands.  I can flip out and run away (as I am wont to do).  I can tell myself that I’m doing everything wrong and I deserve the bad things that happen (as I am also wont to do).  Or, I can do the best I can and hope for the best.  Because there’s no reason to believe the best won’t happen.

“Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.

Matthew 6:34

Feel-good Friday: “She Belongs to Me,” Bob Dylan.

Weirdly, today at work I was given basically the same compliment by two different people in two different situations.  On our way back from lunch, my pal Wade offhandedly mentioned my having the “soul of an artist.”  He’s pretty sparing with compliments, so that one took me aback and kinda moved me, actually.  Later, one of my newer co-workers—I’ve known her for a month, starting when she and I and the other session worker all started the same day—described me as “artistic.”

I haven’t really felt like that at all about myself in a while.  As you can tell, blogging isn’t even my strong suit lately, and there have been times in my life when blogging was like breathing.  Winter—especially this particular winter—has chilled and chapped me, and at its worst, it’s bound and gagged me.

I do not anticipate continuing to feel this way—as always, there are beginnings and ends in progress, and I know I’m going to be fine.  I’m looking forward to shedding my overcoat—literally and metaphorically—and being able to move and feel a little more freely, without fear.  I believe passionately in some things, but even with belief can come terror, and that can be stifling.

Creativity stifled is maddening.  Thus, it was nice to hear from someone—from two someones!—today that I at least don’t always come off as stifled.  I don’t consider myself an artist, but I understood the spirit of what two nice people were trying to say to me today, and it meant a whole lot.

This was probably the third song I claimed as my favorite Bob Dylan song during my early fanhood.  There have been more in the decade-plus since then, of course, but this one belongs to a really special time—to the one semester in college that I wouldn’t change anything about even if given the chance.  I was 19, and if I ever were an artist in my life, it was then.  This song, I guess, was sort of my anthem.

(If this has gotten too navel-gazy for you, I invite you to go over to YouTube and watch this claymation nightmare-fuel version of the same song, in which a cat eats Bob.  Not joking.)

She’s got everything she needs

She’s an artist

She don’t look back

Doing the blog-block shuffle.

I’ve done this before in posts I won’t bother to link, but it’s been a long time.  It’s a weird life right now, and I should write, but I can’t always write about the stuff I want to.  I can pretty much always write about music, though, so let’s try this again.

Oh, and just a refresher—the basic premise:  I hit “shuffle songs” on my iPod and free-associate with each song.  I can’t hit skip on the embarrassing ones (unless I really want to, in which case it’s my blog and I don’t have to tell you that), but I’m usually going to skip anything classical or spoken word or otherwise less-relevant.  I’ve been feeding my iTunes with the CDs I’ve been trying to organize throughout all the moving and such, so this could be interesting.

Or it could be easy blog fodder.  Either way, here goes.

1.  “Mrs. Robinson,” Simon and Garfunkel.  Well, THAT’s a no-brainer.  Actually—now I’ve said that, I’m not sure exactly what to say.  I always thought of the song as a kind of microcosm of the 1960s—drug references, “the candidate’s debate,” remembrances of things past.  It’s bittersweet and, obviously, dang catchy.  For years, I would play it in the car and sing it loudly, once through as Simon, the next through as Garfunkel.

I’ve always found the “where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?” line particularly poignant…I guess my generation’s not the first one to long for a simpler time past.

2.  “Elevation,” U2.  Ha.  Odd follow-up, but I guess that’s the gamble.  All That You Can’t Leave Behind was a musical crutch for me for months after 9/11 and a concurrent heartbreak.  I thought this number was particularly sexy and fun.  I’d sing it (again) as loudly as I could and get completely breathless.  I also remember my sister and I—during our all-too-brief time as roommates—blaring it and bellowing out the ooooooooh-ooh-oohs at the beginning.

3.  “That’s All It Took,” Gram Parsons.  Great songs so far.  Well, you know how much I revere the late Mr. Parsons.  I love his earnest vocals in everything from the fun western-swingy stuff (such as this song) to the ballads that I can’t listen to because I know I’ll cry.  I love Emmylou’s harmonies on all of his songs, and this one is no exception.  She sounds so young, and I believe they felt every single word they were singing to each other.  (Whether they actually did or not is none of my business, but I’m sticking with that.)

4.  “Daylight,” Coldplay.  Hmm.  I mentioned I had Coldplay on my iPod as evidence of my non-hipsterdom not too long ago.  This one’s from A Rush of Blood to the Head, which is my favorite of their albums (and one of the three I actually own, and probably the only one I’ve listened to extensively).  I listened to this album every time I was in my car with a certain set of my friends for a while back in Alabama; one of them hated Coldplay because she thought they sounded like they were on acid.  Like that’s a bad thing. 

This is a pretty typical track—very ambient, lots of fast-moving stuff going on in the background, kind of hypnotic vocals.  I don’t listen to this stuff anymore, but this is a nice reminder of why I once did.

5.  “Hand in Glove,” The Smiths.  From Louder Than Bombs.  I love this album, but this isn’t a track I necessarily know very well from it.  I love Morrissey’s voice.  I came to him as a solo artist through Ryan Adams, actually, and yes, I know I just lost some cred.  I like his gloomy vocals and his depressing lyrics.  From there, I went backward to his time with the Smiths.  I need to listen to this album more.

Okay, five songs should do it.  It’s less-than-inspired or -inspiring, but it’s something.  We’ll see what happens next time.

(post-)Weekend update.

Well, I was going to post some pictures from my month of January, but you’ll just have to go to my Flickr (see widget under the blogroll) if you’d like to look at some of my snapshots from the camera I got for Christmas.

And yes, I know I’ve not done very well with blogging, and I have no real explanation.  I don’t really know what to say to many people about many things at the moment.

My job is going well—it’s boring (for now), but mostly a good kind of boring.  I like the two people I share the little writers’ room with.  I like being left in peace to either do my work or fill my time how I want when there’s not much work.  I love working downtown.  Just as last time, I feel it a shame that I only get to keep the job for a few months, but I’ll hopefully have things to move on to afterwards.

Life with Leeann is pretty awesome.  Our menagerie seems to be at least civil, at least most of the time.  If Dorian could stop eating the (non-toxic, I checked) plants, and if Delgado could learn that with kitties, less enthusiasm is more, it would be near-perfect.  We watch movies.  We say things back and forth that make us laugh fairly often.  She’s great.  I think both of us are people who are prone to want to live alone, but at the risk of jinxing it, I think we’re well-suited as housemates.

Massage school is more challenging this module.  I’m in a class right now where I’m learning nerves and the muscles of the head, neck, and back.  It’s…hard.  I don’t do as well with all the memorizing as I once did.  And it’s three late nights a week.  Most of the time I’m too tired to remind myself, but I know that ultimately I’m going to end up with something good to do with myself.  I need that.

The Situation 2010” was nice and uneventful around these parts.  For that I am thankful, though I did have to shovel myself out of the driveway last night with the help of a kind neighbor man.

I’ll hopefully be doing better about writing soon.  Until then, stay warm and safe.

Apparently I Tweet again now.

There are just so many cool people on there now.  Grandefille is on there, and so is my aforementioned obsession Neil Gaiman, and Lesley had a baby and I totally missed it because I wasn’t on there.

So, yesterday afternoon, on a whim I reactivated my Twitter account on what turned out to be the one-year anniversary (I’m talking almost to the hour) of my deactivating it.  So…you can follow me if you want.

Moved.

Finally.  All of my belongings, as well as myself and my cat, are now safely under Leeann’s roof.  She and I have worked all day to get everything arranged and put away.

Yesterday ended up a family affair, as my parents decided I needed their help one last time and my sister decided to bring Marley to visit our grandparents, so we all ended up having lunch.  After that, we were able to finish completely ridding my apartment of all remnants of me.

That was hard, I have to say.  That apartment meant  a lot to me in a lot of ways.  I moved into it after I came back to Nashville, having fled The Wasteland.  For the first time, I had (what I thought, anyway, was) a real and lasting job here, and I was ready to settle in and do my thing in my city with my cat.  The rent was on the higher end of the range I’d set for myself, but the property was so nice, and there were built-in bookshelves in the living room.  Looking back, I wonder what disproportionate percentage of my decision rested in that latter fact.

In any case, I thought I’d be there longer.  I hung pictures and everything (no, that doesn’t always happen).  I was determined to make it home.  And, you know, it was.  I never got all the boxes unpacked, but that’s just how things seem to happen with me.

I tend to not unpack all my boxes.

I’m not very good with stability.  I crave it—I always hope that this next move, job, change of any sort is gonna be one that sticks for a while.  None of them have over the past few years, but…well, I want to say “but that’s because none of them were the right thing,” but I’m not sure that’s true.  They were the right things for the time they happened.  That’s all you can really ask for, I guess.

I’d like to stay with Leeann a good while, at least until I can figure out if where I’m going to “stick” next.  I’d like to find home, whatever that is.  For me, it’s not often been a geographical location, or even a physical place.  I have a hometown, and I have two cities I can call home as much as a city can be home.  I’ve said before that home is where my family is, but even they aren’t all in the same place anymore.

That apartment was as stable a place as any that I had to retreat to.  I wrote to you a lot from there.  I wrote to you from the balcony when I couldn’t afford my own internet.  I waited on that balcony for my life to change, actually.  I didn’t have many guests, comparatively, but the ones who did take that long speed-bump-ridden drive back to my little corner of the complex were dear.  Pretty much every single one of them drove straight to the spot directly in front of the building, only to find it was a handicapped spot and have to back out and go to another one.  (I admittedly got to where I’d watch for that to happen.  It made me smile.)

In the course of that year-and-a-third, I changed subtly but profoundly.  Not because of the apartment, of course, but definitely under its roof.  I have some unique memories tied to it—memories I can never make with any other people in any other place.  I experienced an astonishing number of beginnings AND ends.  And some things continue on, even some things that in that short time seemed to be gone for good, and for that I am thankful.  Just…really thankful.

Confession:  I urged my parents to make quick work of the finishing-up process because I wanted to be out of there by evening; I had a hair appointment and we were going to get dinner, and I knew if I had to go back by myself to complete my departure, I’d cry.  I already was choking up a little bit.  That’s pretty silly, I know.  But, I got to get it all emptied and cleaned, then go be with my loved ones and then come home.

Home.  That’s where I write you from now.  Everything’s still not in its place, not in Leeann’s house and not in my life.  I see it happening, though.  I see things slowly moving to where they should be, and I look forward to moving closer to that.  To home, in a way.  (Note to Leeann—this is not to say I’m staying here forever, so don’t panic or whatever.)

I get really scared of change.  You’d think I sought it out with the rapid-fire way I’ve moved around and switched jobs, pretty much since I got out of grad school but especially since 2006.  And, granted, I welcome new beginnings and renewals.  I’m learning to let things unfold and just…continue, instead of wanting big catharses and watershed moments.  I’ve always thrived on those, but I’ve ended up shedding sometimes too much.

Oh, anyway…I was saying I get scared.  I do.  I am scared.  I’m sitting on some pretty major upcoming changes.  I get these panic moments, and they’re heightened by whatever is going on at the time, so undertaking the moving process during the holidays was kind of a frantic thing at times.  I’m glad it’s over.  I know it will put me in a better position to handle other things coming my way.

I really like my room.  It has two windows.  It already feels like my room, even though it still has some of Leeann’s furniture in it.  It’s just nice to be in a room in a house.  This room, in this house, actually.  Now, if we can just get Dorian and the doggies to make nice (more specifically, if we can get Dorian to be nice to the doggies)…well, life won’t be perfect, and things will still be changing and scary.  But, I have a home and a housemate, and everyone I love is safe and healthy, and so even if I’m still not completely stable…I’m at least a little settled in, for here, for now.